Fearless (Scarlet Suffragette, Book 1): A Victorian Historical Romantic Suspense Series

by Nicola Claire

  But who would do such a thing?

  “Our latest victim was killed in-situ,” I advised.

  “Albert Park, sir?”

  I nodded. Killed, displayed and then left, all so he could go rob a bookmaker at a pugilist fight. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Why would a Militia Guard, who happened to be in his uniform coat at the ring, kill Suffragettes and then attempt a robbery?” I mused aloud.

  “Does seem a bit strange, sir. But then, when do bludgers like ‘im actually make any sense?”

  I stood up abruptly, straightening my cuffs and realising my jacket was missing. No doubt still in my curricle. Where Anna had been wearing it.

  I let out a disgruntled breath of air and picked up my cane. Tapping it loudly on the floor of the room.

  “There’s no point trying to make order of something that is not the actions of a sane man,” I announced. “If this Guard is our killer, then he’ll be easy to track down.”

  “The Militia Headquarters?” Blackie enquired.

  “Indeed. But first we visit Doctor Drummond.”

  “Very good, sir,” Blackmore announced, following me out of the office.

  Chalmers had brought in more men than necessary. But there was very little to be done tonight. If the Militia Guard was our man, he knew we were on to him. And if he wasn’t, then the killer was in the wind as well. Three dead, and we had so very little to show for it.

  Save for the fact that they’d all been Suffragettes. That they’d all known Anna.

  My cane came down harder on the wooden floor as we walked toward the Station’s surgery. The sounds of the bustling hub drowned out by an insistent buzzing in my ears. They’d all known Anna. Would she be next?

  I felt a sudden sharp ache inside my chest, forcing me to rub at it. Sending Anna home had been the only choice. She couldn’t have stayed here, not with Chalmers on the war path. And I couldn’t justify the time taken to see her home myself when a third woman had just been murdered. I had a job to do, and as much as I believed Anna was more than capable of holding her own in the surgery we were about to walk into, I also knew that society was not ready to harbour a female chief surgeon.

  Even if she did carry the degree Chalmers insisted was required. But for all his legal arguments, it was his dislike of a woman working with men that truly motivated the superintendent. The degree he called for was merely an out.

  Yet Anna had been raised in that room. She knew it better than Drummond, who had held the office for ten long months now. Since Thomas Cassidy had died.

  I came to a halt inside the door to the surgery and looked around at the familiar sight. How many nights had I spent in here with Thomas, listening to him talk of his daughter? How many nights had I steered the conversation that way?

  And now Thomas was gone and Anna was banned from the building. Life could indeed be cruel in that way. Anna’s battles were not unusual or unheard of. But they were battles I could not fight for her, and in that regard, they were battles that preyed on my mind.

  “Inspector,” Drummond called from across the room where he attended the body of Helen Nelson.

  She was naked and uncovered, her abdomen and chest open, exposed to the harsh lamp light in the room. The smell of the dead mixed with a faint smell of lemon and vinegar. But death was too strong a scent not to win out. I crossed the space between us and looked down at the face of Anna’s friend.

  A slow breath of air seeped out between my pursed lips, as Blackie crossed himself and murmured a prayer. And the doctor rooted around in her innards, disregarding the fact that she’d once been a lady.

  “What can you tell me?” I demanded, my voice hard, mirroring the state of my heart.

  I couldn’t allow myself to think of this woman’s connection to Anna. Not in here. Not faced with this.

  “Cause of death was exsanguination,” the doctor advised. “The wound at the neck did it.” He indicted the slice across her delicate throat with a blood tipped scalpel held firmly in one hand. “Left to right, making your murderer right handed.”

  I could hear Blackie swallowing. The sight was indeed a harsh one.

  “What else?” I pressed.

  “Time of death was approximately six-thirty. Maybe as late as seven-thirty, it’s seasonably cold right now and her body was left out in the elements.”

  “That makes our Guard a good fit,” Blackmore offered.

  I still didn’t see it. But what else did we have to go on?

  Drummond stood up from his lean over the victim and eyed us both.

  “You have someone in mind for these?”

  “Perhaps,” I hedged. “What of the abdomen?”

  “The liver, kidneys, stomach and intestines have all been removed. The pancreas and spleen have been shredded beyond recognition. It would have made quite a mess.”

  “On him as well as the surroundings?” I queried.

  “Indeed,” Drummond consented. “Was the ground heavily marked with blood?”

  “Quite, but most of it was in the fountain water.”

  “I see,” Drummond said slowly, as though picturing it himself. Or perhaps his reasoning was lagging this evening; there was a good chance he’d been drinking prior to being hauled back in here. I searched his features now, but if he’d been imbibing it didn’t show.

  As much as I wanted the man to be incompetent, to further Anna’s claim to his role, it was obvious he was still quite capable of carrying out his job. Even if he was under the weather.

  Anna’s battle was graver than she realised, and there was nothing I could do to make her understand that fact. For Anna, the struggle was worth it. And if there was one thing I’d learnt about Anna Cassidy, it was that she fights hardest for that which she believes in most.

  “Then perhaps your murderer was able to wash before leaving the scene,” Drummond offered. A good point, that actually changed a few things.

  “He’d be able to leave via main streets, and not fear being seen,” I added.

  “Or be able to go directly to the Swan Hotel and watch a round or two of prizefightin’,” Blackie agreed.

  I didn’t pass comment. But said, “What of a show of strength, Drummond? Any indication that you’ve seen? Thorley and Bennett both displayed levels of unimaginable strength. But not so here, it seems.”

  The doctor shook his head slowly as we both looked back down at the body of Helen Nelson, noting the abrasions on her legs and the lack of defensive wounds on her arms.

  “She was drugged, though,” Drummond announced, making Blackie and myself stare at the man in disbelief.

  “You didn’t think that a salient point to begin your report with?” I demanded.

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders, turning his back to us in order to wash. Whether the move was coincidental or a show of his disrespect, I wasn’t sure. But I revised my assessment of his faculties. Helen Nelson wasn’t the only one under the influence of a drug. Drummond’s perhaps not as insidious as Miss Nelson’s, but damaging to his reputation nonetheless.

  “Opium,” Drummond explained. “Lachryma papaveris,” he added. “Your girl, here, reeks of it.”

  And yet it hadn’t been a scent I’d picked up upon entering the room. Nor at the scene. Although a park would be a perfect location to hide such a thing. Open spaces, soft breezes clearing the air. But in here?

  “I smell no such thing,” I commented, attempting to keep the scepticism out of my voice.

  Drummond turned from the sink and walked over to a bowl on a side bench, lifting it up and taking a small sniff. His nose wrinkled.

  “Without the stomach contents,” he said, “it’s difficult to tell. But I’d hazard a guess that alongside the scent of smoked opium in the lungs,” - he held out the dish for us to see and smell - “and on her clothes, the victim was also plied with Sydenham’s Laudenum. There’s indication in the oesophagus that she’d consumed an opiate recently. Enough to leave a significant mark on her palate and throat.”

&n
bsp; I raised a hand when the doctor insisted we both take a sniff of the bowl’s contents. Which now I was vaguely able to identify as Miss Nelson’s lungs and gullet. The man was almost as macabre as the killer.

  “I believe you,” I assured him, pushing the dish back towards his body. “Opium,” I concluded. “What make you of that, Sergeant?”

  Blackmore stepped closer, not in order to smell or view the contents of the dish, but to look down at the woman lying on the surgeon’s slab.

  “She don’t much look like a dream stick user, sir,” he said.

  “I would say not,” I agreed, frowning. “Could she have smoked a pipe or just been near enough to someone who was?” I asked the doctor.

  He studied the victim, as if by merely looking he’d find the answers we sought. It reminded me so much of Thomas and Anna, that for a moment I forgot who Drummond was. They were not so different, these three. Save one was dead. One was a drunkard. And one was a woman who would never hold a candle to either men in society’s eyes.

  How wrong that was.

  “Near enough to someone smoking a pipe, I’d say,” the doctor concluded. “But if that’s the case, she was in his company for quite some time.”

  I raised an eyebrow at the man. “Why say you that?”

  Drummond lifted his piercing gaze to mine. Even slightly gin-soaked the man was quite shrewd.

  “The Laudenum made her compliant,” he explained. “She offered up no fight.” The lack of defensive wounds. “He took his time, while he did this.”

  The doctor’s hand swept out over the desecrated body of the victim. Hovering over the absent breast on her right. “He had fun while she was still alive,” he murmured, the air in the room growing heavy with that vile revelation.

  In a whisper, he concluded, “He enjoyed himself, this time.”

  Had he not before this? Would he do so again?

  I feared we would find out. And the next victim would suffer unimaginable pain.

  My eyes closed. My hand fisted the top of my cane near enough to crack it.

  This had to stop. This couldn’t go on. Three dead could become five in the blink of an unwary eye.

  I should know. I’d seen this all before. Miles away, in a different land, but not a different world.

  Auckland city was becoming Whitechapel.

  Seventeen

  Not Really There

  Anna

  A solitary candle burned in the front window of the house. A welcome home I did not feel. Night had shrouded the street in wisps of fog, like fingers curling in an eerie beckoning. Noises sounded detached, separated from reality. The entire neighbourhood stood still, breath held, waiting. As if it was already aware of the horrific news I bore with me.

  I pulled my cloak closer around my shoulders, then looked down Franklin Street after the constable's carriage. The horse's hooves echoed on the paving, reminding me of childhood stories; headless horsemen and curved scythes invaded my mind. I could have sworn I heard a woman screaming.

  A shiver ran down my spine, sending chills throughout my body. I knew a fire awaited within, but urging my feet forward took great courage.

  How did I face this? How did I make Wilhelmina feel safe?

  My cousin's woes were not I'll-founded. I feared for her, as I feared for all Suffragettes right now. But Mina's... proclivities made her susceptible to such darkness. My fear was doubled for good reason.

  Would she regress? Would she remember?

  I straightened my shoulders and sucked in a deep breath. By the time I'd exhaled, I was walking in through the front door.

  Warmth and that welcoming glow enveloped me. The old house creaking as the night outside grew evermore colder. The smell of Mrs Hardwick's wood polish met my nose. The inviting scent of Father's surgery called to my soul.

  I ignored both and headed directly for the front parlour and the candle that burned within. The room was empty, save for the melted wax. I crossed to the window, glancing out at the fog shrouded night and leaned forward, blowing the flickering flame out with one short, sharp breath. When I stood again, I could have sworn I saw movement in the night; eyes watching furtively from shadows across the street.

  But when I stared harder into the gloom, shapes eluded me. If someone was watching the house, I could not tell. I considered the watcher to be from Inspector Kelly's establishment. His desire to keep me safe was not in question. His reasons for doing so shouldn't have been either. But I doubted the logical answer.

  Inspector Kelly was too complicated by half.

  I turned and crossed the now darkened room, memory allowing me to avoid collision with any furniture. When I emerged into the hallway, Hardwick was standing there. Apron dusted in flour, hands clasped before her ample figure, a matronly look upon her features I had long ago learnt to ignore.

  "Hardwick," I acknowledged with a nod of my head. I did not have the energy this evening to navigate the maze of her concerns. But sometimes her love of my family, of my father, allowed her certain liberties.

  "Miss Cassidy," she said, her words merely whispered. "There is a foul wind about this night."

  I had never given much credence to Mrs Hardwick's superstitions, but I was wont to agree tonight.

  "Is my cousin still awake?" I asked, not passing comment. To do so would invite further debate. And I wasn't without some intelligence.

  "She retired only a half hour ago, miss. Sure you'd be home any minute for the past two hours." The reprimand was couched in motherly worry.

  "It has been a long night," I offered, moving toward the stairs and my, no doubt, still pacing cousin.

  "There is blood on your sleeve," Hardwick suddenly announced. "Will be the devil's job to soak that out."

  My throat closed over, the monumental task ahead of me looming larger than ever now. Hardwick was not aware, her words concern only. Reprimand at most.

  "Please have a tray prepared," I asked, forcing myself to speak strongly. "Tea, some milk and sugar." And then as an after thought added, "Two glasses and my father's whiskey, as well."

  Hardwick stalled in her movement to turn away at the command, her eyes searching my face, her cheeks whitening.

  "Bad news," she whispered.

  "The worst," I found myself admitting. Even at six-and-twenty I still couldn't help embracing the mother figure she had always provided.

  "Right away, miss," she replied, ducking her head and effecting the subservient servant role finally. I closed my eyes as her footsteps sounded out in retreat to the kitchen, willing myself to move. Too grateful for her acquiescence to manage more than grasping the banister to save from crumpling into a loose pile.

  My emotions were quite out of control; a fashion I did not much care for. I sucked in another deep breath and then started up the steps, feeling every creak in my body, every bruise on skin, every stretch of tired muscle as though I had run a Greek marathon.

  Not entirely unexpected, Wilhelmina waited at the top of the stairs, hands wringing, face blanched of all colour, her night-rail billowing in an unseen draft from deeper within the house somewhere.

  "What are you doing out of bed?" I remonstrated, ushering her back along the hallway and in through the open door to her room. The fire was still burning, but much of the heat had escaped as she'd stood, for God knows how long, on that landing. Listening. Waiting. Fretting. "You'll catch your death of cold," I added, wincing at the unfortunate and inaccurate pun.

  "I heard your return," she advised, scrambling back into bed and clutching the blankets around her shivering shoulders. "I heard voices," she whispered, making me glance towards her from where I was stoking the fire.

  "Just Hardwick and myself," I reassured her. Mina's fears were always so close to the surface. And right now, we could have all done with a little distance.

  "What has happened?" she demanded, her voice stronger in that instant than I would have given her credit for.

  "Hardwick will arrive soon with some tea," I stalled.

  Sh
e was having none of it.

  "You have been gone all afternoon, cousin. And return in the thick of night. Face leached of all colour. Blood staining your hands."

  I looked down at the evidence of my pastimes, cursing my failure to clean up at the Station. Not that I would have been allowed near the Surgery in order to do so. And anywhere else inside the establishment was earmarked for men.

  A soft sigh escaped my lips and I stopped fussing with the fire iron. Staring instead at the brightly coloured flames. Letting the crackle and hiss fill the silence.

  "I am strong enough, Anna," Wilhelmina finally murmured. "You have given me time to find that strength again."

  I turned around and looked my beloved cousin in the eyes; she deserved that much and more. Crossing to her desk, I moved to pull out the chair, my gaze snagging on an advert for the upcoming mayoral elections. The obvious wording designed to favour men.

  "Mr Crowther's I presume?" I enquired, flicking the flyer over and quickly reading the back.

  "We thought it best to see what Mr Entrican's opposition was all about," she advised. "I do believe, for all his vitriol, that the gentleman could be persuaded to our cause. If only one could separate him from his cronies."

  My eyes came up reluctantly from the paper, spearing Wilhelmina with a doubtful glance. It was better than the alternative I was feeling: Shock that my cousin had self-motivated to act.

  Then a thought occurred. One I did not want to countenance. But I knew Mina, and it had to be asked.

  "Whose idea was this, dear cousin?"

  "Why, Mrs Poynton's, of course."

  I sat down in the chair, my legs shaking with nervous energy.

  "And who is the 'we' that you speak of?"

  "Anna, have I done aught wrong?" Her voice trembled, but she valiantly held my gaze.

  "No, Mina," I rushed to assure her, but I feared I'd already misspoken. "You have not, but I'd still like to know who accompanied you to retrieve this."

  Heartbreakingly, I thought I might just know the answer.

  "Helen accompanied me," she confirmed then, making the room spin and cold sweat to bead my brow.

  Oh, dear Lord. How close had Wilhelmina come?